My Fair Mayfair

I am most certain that a Nightingale did not sing in Berkeley Square this morning. At 3 bellow Celsius, London seemed reluctant to awake: even at half past 8, the evening street lamps still shone, as I took my first of many brisk walks down Marylebone Lane.



Morning in Mayfair is surprisingly similar to the early hours on Manhattan?s Upper East Side: a fleet of dark overcoats sail down busy narrow streets, all luffing in the face of a whipping winter wind. Navigating these waters first thing can be both cruel and comforting for a transplant like myself. For at least this morning, I felt a bit closer to home. And so it is fitting that my home-away-from-home for the next 9 months can be reached in an utter New York minute.

Tucked away in a quiet corner in Maryleborne lies a rather unassuming stone façade. As humble as the British and as traditional as the French, it is quite fitting that the culinary school of the ages calls this it?s London home. But by 9am this seemingly sleepy mews is rudely awakened. Screaming ovens and hissing pans sound through the bright blue shutters, as the alleyway bellow fills with echoes of whisked stainless steel. It is vinaigrette, it is mayonnaise, it is crème Chantilly? it is just another morning at Le Cordon Bleu.

Day one in the kitchen began with a bang (or siren that is): fire alarm in the boulangerie. A surge of steam, smoke, and students followed, all billowing onto the sidewalk. All of us in our iron pressed uniforms formed a rather remarkable sea of crisp white naiveté. I do not think I have ever felt so small, so inexperienced, and so out of my element. But as I stood shivering in this sea of frightened and frozen faces, the first snowflakes of the new year began to fall, and I realized that my story is just one of many on this day of new beginnings.


Darcy Jones